Taming the Beast: Charles Manson's Life Behind Bars (4 page)

“But we need him, Mr. George. We all have to help him.”

Putting aside her threats, I was impressed with Squeaky’s spunk. She was ruthless and daring, and had an air of sophistication and mystery about her. Staring at this lonely young lady, some basic instinct flickered inside me. I felt envious of her commitment to Manson. I imagined myself wooing her away from him, straightening out her head, and returning her home to her parents a changed, remorseful woman. To accomplish that, I didn’t know if I should take her in my arms and give her a hug, or slap her across the face and scream some sense into her. I even contemplated dragging her kicking and screaming to the psychiatric ward and pumping a few thousand volts of electricity into her messed-up brain. I dreamed about helping her escape a decade-long nightmare, but it was only a seminary student’s fantasy. There was nothing I, or anyone else, could really do. Short of a biblical miracle, the only person who could free her was Charlie himself, and even if he tried, she probably wouldn’t accept it.

Tossing the young ladies a bone, I set up an interview at a later date to be held in the records office of the administration building. I had a few more questions I wanted answered before I filed my final ruling on their visitation request. I also needed the time to determine if either had a criminal record. I knew they weren’t felons. If they were, the point would have been moot. Convicted felons aren’t allowed to visit prisoners. On the other hand, I suspected that the girls might have picked up a misdemeanor or two along the way. Sure enough, they had, but their official offenses seemed mild in comparison with some of their cohorts’. Squeaky had been arrested during the Manson trial and charged with conspiracy to spike a witness’s hamburger with LSD to prevent her from testifying. She was given a ninety-day sentence. Police also had questions about what part, if any, Squeaky might have played in the murders of a couple of Manson hangers-on in Stockton. However, she was never charged in connection with those crimes.

Sandra Good’s major post–Helter Skelter blemish was being friends with a group that tried to rob a gun shop. The motive was to arm themselves for an attempt to storm Folsom prison and free Charlie. Good was not arrested when the culprits were rounded up. She was later charged, and convicted, of giving a lift to a Manson supporter who had escaped prison. The helpful ride cost her a few months in jail. The most disturbing thing I had read about Sandra’s life was the mention in
Helter Skelter
of the mysterious demise of her husband, a onetime Family member named Joel Pugh. On December 1, 1969—the same day the main players in the Tate-LaBianca murders were arrested—Pugh was found dead in a London hotel room. Although his throat had been slashed twice, both wrists cut, and no note found, the London authorities ruled it a drug-induced suicide. The question in everybody’s mind was, had Pugh run all the way to London to escape the coming Manson Family Armageddon? And if so, had Manson dispatched an assassin halfway around the world to go after him? Bruce Davis, a Manson Family hatchet man and convicted murderer, had been in London earlier that year. English authorities were uncertain whether he was there the day Pugh died. Wherever he was, Davis didn’t resurface in California until February 1970.

As with Charlie, my fascination with these dangerous women overruled my good sense. I should have run them off and barred them from coming on the prison grounds. Instead, I stretched out the investigation and promised to reconsider the possibility of a future visit or letter. I was flirting with disaster, toying with frayed personalities and damaged souls. Yet, my innate hunger to learn more about the criminal mind, about people like Charlie, Squeaky, and Sandra, pushed me into the abyss.

I recalled some poems I had read in the seminary about the desire of man to soar beyond the ever moving arches of experience that forever drifted farther away, chasing the unknown, seeking something just beyond the next mountain range. Maybe I could make a difference. Maybe one day, with my help, Charlie would stop performing like a circus freak, put on a suit and tie, cut his hair, and promise to join the human race. Maybe Squeaky and Sandra would find some decent men, get married, have babies, and direct their energy toward more positive causes. Maybe I was the one who was crazy.

Whatever my motives, I was determined to closely observe this man and his disciples, if for no other reason than to see where it took me.

That night, something I’d read kept tearing at my mind. I checked my personal files and found it. It was Squeaky’s assessment of the Tate-LaBianca murders. “Stone souls, prowling the neighborhoods, out on the town, looking for a bloodbath. Five or six people get murdered and everybody panics. So what’s the big deal? People die every day.” Hooded or not, this was one sick child. I memorized the quote to keep it in mind whenever I found myself succumbing to her relentless pleadings.

The twin terrors arrived on schedule seven days later. They were draped, as usual, in their colorful robes. I escorted them inside the compound and watched as they followed without hesitation. There were plenty of men inside those gates eager to ravage them on the spot, rape them repeatedly. Most sane women would be terrified by the mere thought of entering such a place. Not Squeaky and Sandra. Totally consumed with their mission, the strange pair readily marched inside this craven environment. Their only concern was getting closer to their master. Their only fear was being prevented from doing so.

A guard ushered them to a conference room normally used for parole board hearings. The mahogany walls, high-backed leather chairs, and polished table offered the formal atmosphere of a court hearing. Squeaky and Sandra seated themselves and waited for the questions. Sitting back in my chair, I plopped Manson’s thick file on the table, then got down to business.

“Why don’t you just tell us what you want?”

Squeaky, as usual, did all the talking. “We want to visit Charlie.”

“You requested visitation rights at every institution Charlie’s been in. They all turned you down. Why should we be different? Has anything changed?”

“You don’t understand. Charlie is our life. He has the answers that will save the world. It’s dying, can’t you see that? He can save it. He can save you and me. Look around you. The air is dirty. The water is polluted. The trees are being cut down to build beautiful homes for the rich. The earth is being raped and scarred by tractors and bulldozers. Money and greed are killing the earth. We must stop it before it’s too late!… See our robes? We’re nuns waiting for our lord to be set free. The only thing we can do before he comes off the cross is clean up his earth for him. Our robes symbolize a new era. We must protect the air, water, and land. My robe is red with the blood I’ve vowed to shed to save our lord’s precious environment.…”

Squeaky went on like that for more than an hour. I couldn’t help noticing how her words and phrases and the rhythm of her language matched Charlie’s. Some of his oddest statements came out of her mouth in the same exact sequence. I could sense that the concepts she parroted were beyond her comprehension. They reached levels of philosophy that would make a college professor woozy.

“Lynette,” I interrupted. “Did you come here to lecture us or to discuss visiting Charlie?”

“Both!” she snapped, once again exhibiting her stark honesty.

“Well, I only have time for one.”

“You better listen to us, Mr. George,” she threatened, her eyes suddenly on fire. “Your life depends on it.”

“Damn it, Lynette, you can’t keep going around talking like that. That’s it. No visits. The meeting’s over. It’s time to go.”

As we stood, I heard a soft, cold, emotionless voice break the silence.

“Can we write?” Squeaky asked.

“No. I’m sorry.”

Once again, I’d let my heart overrule my head. I wanted to give these women every opportunity to present themselves in a manner that would enable them to see Manson, if only for a few minutes, but they couldn’t even pretend to suppress their violent rhetoric or emotions.

Both Squeaky and Sandra were now fighting for control. Their faces twisted and contorted, warning of an explosive anger born out of a catastrophic disappointment. Then, as quickly as it built, it dissipated. “You are our only hope,” Squeaky pleaded. “The others have all turned us down. They wouldn’t listen, even to save their own lives.”

She continued her pleas as I escorted her out of the office. “Charlie went to prison for us. We are responsible. When we were arrested, he came to us. He gave up the freedom that he loved so much because he wanted us to be free. Now he’s in a tomb, suffering. His blood is being sucked from his life and no one listens. Listen to him,” she whispered, as if she were telling me some great truth so special she couldn’t say it out loud. “He is ever changing. He has majesty that will blind you. He is everything you are not. He can help you.”

As we were coming down the stairs, Associate Warden Ted Rinker,
1
a stiff, hard-line guard turned no-nonsense administrator, burst through the door. “What the hell is going on here?” he demanded. “Who are these people?” I knew exactly what he was thinking. Because of their strange outfits, Rinker figured we’d slipped some of the inmates’ wives or girlfriends into the conference room for some hanky-panky.

“They’re two of the Manson Family women, the ones who have been picketing the front gate, Ted,” I answered matter-of-factly. “We were interviewing them to determine whether they should be allowed to visit Charlie.” For a few seconds, Rinker searched our faces and theirs, wondering if I’d come up with a great dodge.

“Well, you’ve been in here long enough. I want you both back in the unit where you belong,” he groused, never missing an opportunity to pull rank and bully. It was Sunday. I had specifically scheduled the meeting on the weekend to avoid Rinker, San Quentin’s annoying assistant principal.

“Doesn’t that jerk ever go home?” I muttered when he was out of range. “Get a life, Rinker.”

Outside, I watched as Lynette and Sandra glumly walked away, their dreams once again shattered. I would never see Lynette again. Her date with infamy was fast approaching. But she would continue to call and write.

Relentlessly.

2.

A
MONTH AFTER
arriving at San Quentin, I bumped into Warden Rees at the prison snack bar, which was actually a neat little cafe outside the prison walls overlooking San Francisco Bay. Our conversation naturally turned to Manson. “How’s he doing?” Rees inquired.

“Not bad. He’s still in the Adjustment Center, max security.”

“Behaving himself?”

“Pretty much. Everybody caters to the little bastard. It’s like we have this celebrity over there. He’s a weird guy, hard to figure,” I said.

“Have you thought about reducing custody?” I was surprised that Rees posed the question. That was something that I’d been toying with in my own mind.

“We’re seeing him next week in classification,” I explained. “If he comes across okay, the committee might lower his custody and give him a try in B section. He’s ready for a shot. I think he’d do okay.”

“That sounds good,” the warden responded. “He’s been locked up at max custody for what, five years now?”

“Yeah, nobody wants to take a chance.”

Well, maybe you should.”

“Lynette got to you, didn’t she,” I said, smiling.

“Yeah,” Rees confirmed. “She’s an aggressive little bitch.”

“Hey, I’ve been there.” I laughed. “She bugged you about getting him out in the sun, giving him a guitar, and a place to grow some flowers, right?” The warden’s smile confirmed that he was familiar with the rap. “Hey, I thought I was supposed to handle all her calls,” I jokingly protested.

“You are,” he grunted. “She’s still your responsibility. She just lucked out and got through to me.”

“Seriously, Bob,” I continued. “He’s been a good inmate so far. He deserves a break. I’ll get him psyched. If Dr. Sutton thinks he looks okay. I’ll give him the shot.”

Taking the cue, I transferred Charlie to the more populated and less restrictive B section after an exhaustive investigation of the inmates who would be housed around him. The trustees gave me an inside scoop on the mood of the cons, while the correctional sergeants relayed the feelings of the guards. We determined that no one was likely to try and whack him or carve out a piece of his neck for a souvenir.

Charlie had kept his nose clean and earned the right to escape his suffocating twenty-four-hour lockdown. In B section, he’d be able to catch a ray or two of sunshine out in the yard with the other inmates. Remembering Squeaky’s request, I noted that there was a small plot of dirt by the hospital morgue against the west wall. Charlie could plant some seeds, stroke his guitar, and serenade the flowers to his heart’s content.

The Adjustment Center classification committee approved the transfer and reduced his custody from maximum to close supervision. After his first week, the prison psychiatrist informed me that Charlie had settled in and was behaving himself.

The same couldn’t be said for Squeaky. In one of her calls, she announced that she was holding me personally responsible for Charlie’s well-being. I explained that all of the prisoners were my responsibility. They were there to serve their time, not to be beaten, tortured, raped, or abused in any way. Charlie was no different from the rest in that respect. He was, of course, unique in virtually every other category. I found it ironic that the man who preached living free in the wilderness, and castigated those wedded to money and possessions, had more “stuff” than any other prisoner. Charlie’s fans and Family sent him multiples of every item on the approved property list—sweaters, shirts, socks, underwear, books, magazines, television sets, radios, even an acoustic guitar. (He had to check the instrument in and out with the guards, and could only play it during designated times.)

One day, a beautifully crocheted vest arrived through the mail. It was decorated with the most brilliant display of intricate, multicolored scenes I’d ever seen. It was cut like one of those leather biker vests, only the embroidery was truly a masterpiece. Studying it closer, I was amazed to see that it was an artful history of the Manson Family. There were scenes of sex and murder, and images of snakes, spiders, wounded bodies, swastikas, and black-magic symbols harmoniously balanced with clusters of flowers, birds, butterflies, dancing children, musical notes, and natural panoramas. The garment, custom-made by Squeaky and friends, reflected long hours of meticulous, painstaking work. Elaborate and delicately woven, it clashed severely with the ugly, drab monotony of the prison.